When We Get There

Bittersweet, a journey's end.

What next to meet, around the bend?

A destination, well-earned rest.

A hesitation, fell duress.

To keep on rolling, gather no moss,

but seek not control, inglorious gloss

which obfuscates the natural curves,

which grinds and grates upon your nerves.

Shake it loose, but scorn it not,

let inner truths be not forgot.

Listen! Harken to the hum,

a mission scored by heart's true drum.

To fumble is to feel alive

and humble; wealthy, not deprived.

For riches shine in many forms,

some bright and fine, some old and worn.

The dustier chest, the better loot,

the gnarliest tree, the strongest roots.

Your boots were made for treking far,

consulting maps and checking stars.

Wherever you are, feel right at home,

for, from afar, those winds have blown

familiar scents and sounds alike,

a package sent to ease your hike.

Remember, ever, where you've been

and that where you're going lies within.

With every step upon the trail,

your night will dwindle — your dawn, prevail.

Until, at last, at noon you meet,

discovery's tune most bittersweet.